“See?” the salt and peppered woman said, placing her hands on her hips, “I told you she would do just fine.”
Kam marched up the stairs and picked up her baby. She kissed her on the forehead and smiled.
“Of course she did. But don’t you ever let her take the stairs without me being here.”
“Kam, she’s already been up and down these stairs several times. She crawls like a little spider.”
“Don’t say that!”
Joline blanched.
“Sorry, poor choice of words. I meant more like a squirrel.”
“My child is not a rodent! Nor an arachnid!”
“Bish!” Joline said, storming down the stairs. “When did you get so sensitive?”
“How dare y—”
Joline shoved her way through the kitchen doors and disappeared. Seconds later, Jubilee came out, wiping her hands on her apron. The young royal girl had lost her boyish demeanor and begun to blossom into an attractive young woman. She was tall, her tawny hair longer and well-groomed.
“What did you say to her now?” Jubilee said, removing her apron. “Let me guess. She tried to say something nice, and you took it the wrong way and lashed out at her.”
“Uh,” Kam huffed, “I did no such thing. She called Erin a spider and said she’s like a rodent.”
Jubilee crossed her arms over her chest and said, “And I guess it was in a mean way. Because we all know how terrible and ruthless Joline is. So you snapped at her.”
Kam raised a brow and said, “You had better watch yourself, little woman—”
“Oh stop it. You just need Venir’s loins thrust between your legs.”
“Jubilee!”
The girl laughed and walked away. A few of the nearby patrons were laughing too, but avoiding Kam’s angry gaze. She huffed through her teeth. “Little witch.” Her eyes watered and became puffy. She sat down on the steps, rocking her toddler, who was still chewing on the rattle.
“I swear I don’t know what is wrong with me,” she said to Erin. “I used to be such a strong woman. At least I think I was. I swear all these ignorant men have made me weak.”
Everything had been upside down since Venir came back into her life. Along with all his friends, trouble seemed to follow him from one extreme to the other. Gillem Longfingers and Palos the Prince of thieves, not to mention Thorn and Diller. All of whom had plotted to kidnap Erin. Then came Scorch, Darleen, and Sidebor. They’d taken over the Magi Roost, only to see it almost destroyed. But Kam had survived. So had Erin. All Kam had lost was her hand.
I’d like to cut off all their hands.
She brushed her red locks from her eyes and surveyed the tavern. All the candles in the chandeliers were lit. Stony fireplaces blazed throughout the room. Voices chatted openly with one another, and her serving girls smiled once more. Best of all, the mages had returned in their gaudy hats, strangely styled beards, and decorative robes. Pipe smoke drifted through the air like fine mist, and the smell of many tobaccos was almost pleasant. It all left a cozy feeling in the room. It gave her a glad feeling inside.
Perhaps I am too sensitive. I swear I didn’t use to be.
The dwarves were back. Gruff and hard drinking. Halflings drifted between the tables. Women squealed and giggled. Men laughed and guffawed. She used to adore all these things, but it all seemed so temporary now. Scorch would be back; she could feel it. Could feel him and Sidebor all the way to her bones.
“Are you getting sleepy, Little One?” she said to Erin, who yawned and stretched out her little arms. “I think it’s nap time.” She started to call for Joline. Her best friend often put Erin down for her naps while Kam worked the tavern. “Oops, forgot she’s mad at me. I guess I get the pleasure of putting you to sleep, but don’t be difficult and take an hour to start dreaming.”
She started toward her room just as the front tavern door opened and some glum-faced figures entered. Hard men whose faces and cloaks were covered with dirt and dust. Metal rattled from their hips. Her eyes found theirs. She stopped. It was Billip and Nikkel and no one else. Nikkel’s broad smile was gone. Oh my! Jubilee ran up to greet them. They spoke words Kam could not hear except one.
“No!” Jubilee said, dashing out the door.
Kam rushed down the stairs and greeted them face to face.
“What’s happened?” she said, heart pumping behind her breast. “Is everyone alright?”
Neither spoke right away.
She grabbed Billip by the collar of his cloak.
“Is everyone still alive? Where’s Georgio? Where’s Venir? Brak?”
Billip’s head was down when he said, “They live, but you had better come with me.”
She choked a gasp.
Joline came out of the kitchen tying an apron around her waist, and her eyes met Billip’s. He met her halfway and hugged her. She sobbed, hugging him back.
“Where are they?” Kam said to Nikkel. “Where did Jubilee go?”
“Come with me,” Nikkel said sheepishly. “They’re in the stables.”
Kam turned to Joline and started to hand Erin to her.
“Will you?”
“Certainly,” Joline said, taking the little girl in her arms. “Do what you must do.”
Kam followed Nikkel to the barn. Inside one of the stalls, all the others were gathered. Venir and Georgio were kneeled down on the straw-covered floor. Their faces were caked with dried blood and grit. Jubilee was on both knees, sobbing over Brak. The tall man lay flat on his back on a bed of straw, still as a corpse. Tears had washed away some of the grit on his big face. His eyes started to water again.
Jubilee rubbed his head and whispered in his ear.
Kam came closer and asked, “What happened to him?”
Venir—still holding one of Brak’s hands in his—said, “His back is broken.”
How? That was the first question that came to Kam’s mind. But did it matter? No good news came from the Outlands. But at least Brak was still alive.
“Can’t the people here heal it?” Georgio asked her. “I remember when Lefty had the desert flu. They made him better.”
“I’ve never heard of healing such a thing. Mending wounds and curing sickness maybe, but a broken back … I don’t know about that.” She felt horrible saying it. Brak’s eyes watered more. “Can he move his arms?”
Venir slowly shook his head.
Kam could feel her sorrow turn to anger. Her face flushed red. She was more than outspoken when it came to leading the young men into danger. Though he looked like a seasoned warrior, Brak was still no older than Georgio and Nikkel. They weren’t ready for this world.
“Venir,” she said, through her teeth. “A word with you.”
The big warrior patted Brak on the chest and said, “I’ll be back.”
Kam led him far away from the others.
“What did I tell you?” She slammed her fist into his chest. “What did I tell you!”
Venir sighed. He tried to grab her hand, but she twisted away.
“Don’t touch me.”
“Kam,” he said, “I told them not to come. They insisted. They aren’t boys. They’re men. They don’t want to stand and wash dishes.”
“Don’t give me that, Venir!”
He patted the air with his hands.
“Keep it down if you don’t want them to hear.”
She poked him in the chest.
“I’ll speak as loudly as I want.
“All right,” Venir agreed. His made a puzzled look. “How do they handle situations like this here? Is Brak safe?”
“What? What do you mean, safe?”
“Cripples are frowned upon where I come from.”
“We don’t kill people in need. We care for
them, even if it is extreme. No surprise you haven’t noticed. This isn’t Bone, you lout!”
Kam’s green eyes flashed. Her hand charged up with fire, and she struck him square in the chest.
Venir flew off his feet and skipped off the ground. His eyes were wide and glossy. He put his fist on the ground and pushed himself back up to his feet. His nostrils flared, and his brows buckled.
“Don’t do that again.”
“I’ll do whatever I want.” She poked at his chest. “This is my barn. My tavern. Go stay somewhere else. I want you out!”
Chapter 11
“Keep digging!”
The voice was gruff. Always. Mean. Friendless. Lefty sneered and dug in. He’d been digging for more than two hours straight. There was no sun in the foggy lands of Hohm, but sweat ran down his cheeks and back. It ached. His fingers cramped.
“I’ve had about enough of this,” he said under his breath.
“What was that?” the wart-nosed dwarf said. “I didn’t say you could talk.”
Lefty stopped, drew his forearm across his brow, looked up out of the hole, and said, “Almost finished. Plenty deep enough, isn’t it?”
The dwarf lorded over the top of the hole with his stony hands on his hips. Broad-faced with a large hawkish nose, he wore buckskins, and dwarven hatchets hung from his belt. It was Hoknar, Gully’s brother. He spat black juice in the hole and said, “For a halfling, maybe. You digging your own grave? Humph. Now make it big enough for the both of you.”
“What?” Lefty exclaimed. “This hole’s big enough for two of you and three of me.” Lefty threw the shovel down. “You dig it!”
Hoknar slung his hatchet at him.
Lefty slid to the side, but the metal grazed his shoulder.
“Ow,” he said, bleeding. “I can’t dig with one arm.”
“Dig!” Hoknar said, brandishing another hatchet. “Next time, I swear I won’t miss.”
Lefty snatched up the shovel.
“Fine!”
“Throw me up my hatchet,” the dwarf said, spitting in the hole again.
“Gladly.” Lefty snatched the weapon up. “Are you ready?”
Hoknar’s eyes widened in his saucer-like sockets.
Lefty flung it up.
Hoknar snatched it out of the air.
“Keep digging, Halfling.”
Lefty stabbed the spade into the dirt and slung dirt over his shoulder.
“My name’s Lefty,” he said softly, but Hoknar had already walked away. “My name’s Lefty, but only friends know my name, and I don’t have any.” He rubbed the blond scruff on his chin. “I don’t deserve any.”
He dug non-stop two more hours and threw the shovel out. He climbed out after it. Hoknar sat nearby on a rock with his broad back to him. Lefty picked up the shovel and crept forward. Hoknar turned his head a little.
“Whatcha doing, Halfling?”
Getting ready to drive this spade into that bald spot on your skull.
“I’m finished.”
“Is that so?” Hoknar said, turning away again. “I don’t recall saying you were finished.”
If Lefty waited for Hoknar to tell him when he was finished, he’d be digging until tomorrow. Maybe longer. He had learned that the hard way, when the dwarf first put him to work. Had stitched their buckskin boots for three days straight.
“You said to dig a hole big enough for me and him,” he said, looking at the corpse on the ground. It was a man. A merchant, judging by his clothes. Dead, thanks to a hatchet buried in his back. Lefty had witnessed the entire thing. The dwarves had slowed the merchant down and started a conversation, and then Hoknar had killed him with a look of satisfaction.
“Drag the body in the hole and let’s see if it fits,” Hoknar said, rising up. “And if it doesn’t, you can pull it out and start digging again.”
Lefty looked at the corpse on the ground. Its pudgy face, meaty wrists, and bulging belly. It wasn’t a short fellow either, but a big man.
“I can’t move it.”
Lefty was the size of a child. Maybe sixty pounds.
Hoknar grabbed him by his blond locks, pulled him up to his toes, and leered at him.
“You’ll do as I say.”
Lefty swallowed. He wanted to pinch his nose, but held back. Wart-nose’s breath was just as bad as an orc’s, and you never got used to it.
“It’s impossible. You know that, Hoknar,” he said. Be stubborn! They respect strength of will. “You do it.”
Hoknar picked him clear up off his feet.
“You’ll do it,” he said through the chestnut braids in his beard. “Or you’ll die.”
“So be it then,” Lefty said, “I’ve had enough of this. Kill me now then.”
“You’ll die in the Gruell.” Hoknar slung him to the ground. “Now put him in the hole.”
“It’s impossible!” Lefty said, balling up his fist.
Hoknar threw a hatchet into the ground between his feet and said, “No it isn’t. Get on with it.”
Lefty gawped.
He can’t mean …
“Hurry up. I’m hungry.”
Lefty picked up the hatchet, walked over to the body, and stared into the glassy dead eyes. He raised the blade over his head.
Sorry, but I don’t want to die in the Gruell.
Chapter 12
The Warfield. The hottest spot on Bish. Fierce heat. Scalding hate. Men clashed against underlings and their evil beasts. Bish drank their blood, black and red. Their bones and limbs fed the sand.
It started with over five hundred royal riders, galloping like a storm with piercing lances pointed down. A forest of green and golden banners waving in the air. The blinding sun glinting off polished plate mail and full plate armor.
The underlings, over a thousand of them, met the charge. Teeth gnashing. Nostrils flaring. A wave of dark bodies and razor-sharp steel, bracing themselves for the oncoming assault. Most were on their feet. Many rode spiders. A volley of bolts and javelins flung through the air.
They met with an ear-splitting crash.
Lances impaled underlings like rotten fruit. Heavy swords clove through skull and bone. Steeds trampled underlings and spiders under thundering hooves. Shrieks and clamor filled the air. Underlings tore men from their horses. Spiders sucked on horses’ necks.
Men swung claymores. Underlings fell in half.
Juegen underling soldiers’ blades slid through steel and into flesh.
Carnage.
Death.
The shadows of vultures that circled above.
The men, larger and stronger, mowed the underlings down like sickles mowed wheat at harvest. But the battle wore on. An hour. Two. The fight went on. Laborious. Merciless. The blood-splattered armor of the royals slowed them. Their efforts became sluggish. Futile. Men swung their swords and battle axes one last time and fell down in the dusty grime. Underlings ripped off their helmets. Tore out their throats.
The last man in full plate armor faced the last group of underlings. A surge of knotty black bodies converged with sharp weapons raised. His claymore cut through two of them, and then more than a dozen lethal strikes sealed his fate.
Trinos sighed.
It was the second battle in a month where the royals were defeated. She wanted to help, but dared not. The men of this world had to decide their own fate. They needed to send more soldiers. Not hide them in the cities and castles. But at least some fought the plague that was overcoming the land. There was still honor in some men. Bish just needed more to come forward.
To either side of her, the Nameless Two waited. Silent and sandaled, robes waving in the wind, swords slid between the belts on their hips.
“Go,” she said.
Out of the great hilltop they went, onto the battle-bloodied sands below.
She remained on the crag, watching everything. The small mountain was special. It had power that allowed one to see all over the Warfield. But with her powers, Trinos could see beyond that from here anyway. She could see all over most of the world, and she was looking for someone. That someone was Scorch.
She rubbed her chest. He’d almost killed her. She was haunted by the memory of him draining the power from her with that mystic lance. She had survived because an underling named Master Sinway had stepped in. The underling wanted the power for himself, the same as Scorch did. Its lust for power was unequaled in the world. The Nameless Two had dragged Trinos out of the great hole in the ground. It had taken her months to heal, and she was still far from herself.
Bish leeched off her power, and Scorch’s. Neither he nor she was going anywhere now. They were stranded. And though still all-powerful by comparison to everyone else in the world, for the first time in eons she was certain she was no longer infinite. Instead, she was almost mortal. Perhaps she was mortal.
Can I die? In the world that I created?
It was one concern. Scorch and the underlings were another. Scorch was a meddler. A destroyer. The underlings were ravenous for power. Domination. They both needed stopping, but she no longer had that kind of power. Bish was consuming what was left of her power, fueling the world with it. And ever since Scorch started interfering, the world was out of balance, and she had no idea if she or her equalizer could fix it.
She closed her pretty eyes, spread-out her fingers, and focused on the rock beneath her feet. A trickle of glowing energy rose from the ground and into her fingers, filling her with power. Strength. It went on for only seconds, then stopped. Her eyes opened, and she chewed on her lip. Bish had cut her off.
It’s a living and breathing rock. Even more surprising than I made it out to be.
She had created Bish for her own entertainment. Now she was part of that entertainment, only … she could feel everything that everyone else felt. Pain. Sorrow. Suffering. Goodness, kindness, and gentleness were overwhelmed. Her dog-eat-dog creation was devouring itself.
The Darkslayer: Series 2, Box Set #1, Books 1 - 3 (Bish and Bone) Page 21
